  Who at night the convent walls Passes, sees the windows brightly Lighted up, for there the spectres Make their gloomy circuit nightly. ’Tis dead Ursulines that join In the sad and dark procession; From the linen hoods are peeping Faces young of sweet expression. Tapers bear they in their hands, Glimm’ring bloodred and mysterious Strangely echo in the crossway Whispers low, wails sad and serious. To the church the train moves on; Sitting on the wooden benches Of the quire, their mournful chorus Straight begin the’ unhappy wenches. Like a litany it sounds, But the words are wild and shocking They are poor and outcast spirits At the heavenly portal knocking. “Brides of Christ we used to be, “But by love of earth were chainÈd, “And we render’d unto CÆsar “Things that unto God pertainÈd. “Charming is a uniform “And mustachios smooth and shining “For the epaulettes of CÆsar “Were our hearts in secret pining. “Antlers to the brow we gave “By our shameless ill behaviour, “Which the crown of thorns once carried,— “We betray’d our heavenly Saviour. “Jesus,—mercy’s very self,— “Softly wept o’er our transgression, “And he said: ‘Your souls be cursÈd “‘For disgracing your profession!’ “Grave-sprung spectres of the night, “We must wander in these dreary “Walls, our folly to atone for,— “Miserere! Miserere! “Ah, within the grave ’tis well! “Though indeed ’tis far more cheery “In the glowing realms of heaven,— “Miserere! Miserere! “Jesus sweet, forgive at length “Our transgression sad and weary; “Let us feel the warmth of heaven,— “Miserere! Miserere!” Thus the troop of nuns sing on, And a long-dead clerk is playing On the organ. Hands of spirits O’er the keys are wildly straying. |
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